To my Wife, My Love.

I could slit my wrists,
But that would require
One porcelain, bathtub, spotless, white.
Hot water, 65 gallons of.
One razor blade, sharp,
And a mere five to ten minutes of quiet solitude
In which to revel in my misery
And contemplate my end.

Or I could hang myself,
But that would require,
Rope, six to eight feet of,
The knowledge to tie a noose,
An overhead beam, 8 feet from the ground,
One chair, easily kicked over,
And another mere five to ten minutes,
In which to revel in my misery
And contemplate my end.

I could drown myself as well,
But that would require
Trousers, cargo style, with many pockets
Rocks, large and heavy,
A lake or large body of water,
A boat to fish out my body,
And mere minutes
In which I could revel in my misery
And contemplate my end.

No, it seems to me,
That the best way to kill myself,
With the slowness and misery I deserve,
Is to simply keep loving you,

For that only requires,
One fool, old enough to know better,
Two hearts, one easily broken
The other bitter and jaded,
And a long life,
In which to revel in my misery,
And contemplate my end.